


Habit Of Heart

by heyzee



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyzee/pseuds/heyzee





	Habit Of Heart

Phil's life had been more or less the same for the last two years. He was about to enter his third year in university with the idea that everything would be the same as it always had been. 

He'd wake up in his flat 20 minutes too late to the sound of his alarm clock angrily beeping at him from his bedside table, rush to get dressed and look presentable, take the small walk from his flat to his university and then endure 8 hours of studying just to get home and do the same thing the next day. He liked the routine, he felt in control. Most of his friends were residents in the dorm rooms attached to the university. Phil, on the other hand, lived in a small block of flats a few streets away. 

He had moved into his flat 3 months after starting his first year of university when he realised that sharing a dorm with a complete stranger only hindered his studying. The shared living space made him feel on edge and awkward around his own apartment.

His flat's rent was some what too cheap and the floorboards creaked in some places but he thought it added character. It took him a while to get settled in, it was a big shock moving away from his childhood home and being swept into abrupt adulthood but it'd been some years since then and his flat was now the place he called home. It only had one bedroom and a conjoined kitchen and living area, with a small bathroom coming off of his bedroom. Small, yet homely. It gave him creative freedom.

He had framed poems on the walls and literature hanging from string with small pegs keeping them up, fairy lights dotted here and there and far too many blankets on his sofa. It felt like home. His favourite thing was when the sun set at 6pm on autumn nights and for a few minutes it would seep through the windows, drawing orange swirls on the paper hanging from wall to wall. 

It made the words on the pages set on fire and their meanings danced around his head making him feel dizzy with pure bliss. The words were damaged from exposure to sunlight and it gave the pages a faded appearance but it was how he liked it.

He had a large window facing the city. The paint on the windowsill was slightly chipped and flaking from years of sun damage. He had an old oak desk sat just below it. Pens rested in old bean pots and leather journals were stacked on top of each other, threatening to topple over if someone so much as coughed too forcefully. Plant pots with ivy and other easy to manage foliage sat in any place that was deemed appropriate. None of the pots matched. Some of the ceramic ones were old and cracked and some were chipped in places that he wasn't even sure if it was possible to chip. 

He enjoyed the company the plants brought him. Caring for something living never failed to help him with his writers block when it inevitably came around again. He promised himself that one day he would buy a dog but for now his plants were enough. Phil wasn't one to keep friendships alive very long and the same went for the lifespan of his plants. He had a large metal watering can that was battered and dented but it did the job of keeping them hydrated when he remembered.

Phil Lester was a man of Habit. On days he wasn't at university he would wake up at 9am to the sound of birds chirping. He'd sit down his favourite mug onto his kitchen work surface, scoop two teaspoons of instant coffee and one teaspoon of sugar into his mug and then look on at the city below until the kettle finished boiling. 

His flat smelled strongly of coffee, coffee smelled like home. It made his insides warm and his throat swell and he loved it. There were circular coffee stains all over his desk and even on some of his writing. Some people probably thought that he relied on it to stay alive, you never saw Phil Lester without a cup of coffee in his hand. On the way to uni he would pick up a caramel latte from the coffee shop a few doors away from his flat. It didn't matter if he was running twenty minutes late for university, he would always find time to get a coffee. 

Because of this, favourite season was winter. He loved how the coffee danced around his body, warming from his lips to his toes. He loved the steam from the mug or disposable cup drifting into swirls of warmth into the bitter air. It was small things like this that made him glad to be a writer. Being able to articulate the pure simplicity of small acts of beauty was something that made his heart swell.

Coffee and paper and chipped plant pots and too many blankets and Phil Lester on an September morning. The world was so beautiful, he wished more people could see it from his eyes.

-

It was the following Saturday morning when his world began to flip. Very slowly at first. But soon his thoughts would be tumbling around without any way to stop. His world would flip and twist and throw around anything and everything that had ever came to be. 

He was sat in his small single bed, eyes heavy with sleep and lips slightly stuck together. His hair was pushed back, slightly clinging to the sides of his forehead with sweat. He reached over to take his glasses that were messily placed on top of his salt rock lamp as he did every morning. He took a few small sips of water from the glass next to his bed and gave himself a few moments to properly wake up. It was 8:35am which confused him. He didn't normally awaken until 9am and he wasn't too sure what sparked the sudden uprising. Letting out a few yawns a stretching his arms to mimic what could only be seen as a distressed bird, he decided to get up early. 

He slipped out of the covers of his bed to be greeted with the morning breeze drifting through his slightly perched open window. The sun was almost fully risen, traces of pink still littering the sky. The air was crisp and the sky looked fresh. He pushed on his slippers and pulled down his hoodie and letting the sleeves stretch just past his fingertips. His grandma would always complain that his clothes were too big or his jeans were ripped and continued to insist on patching them up for him every time they saw each other. He found it endearing that she thought his fashion was mere accident. 

Phil wandered into the kitchen. He took out his favourite mug, poured two scoops of instant coffee and one of sugar and, just like any other day, wandered to the window while the kettle boiled. He wasn't aware of his obvious behavioural patterns until anyone mentioned it. Even then he'd usually forget about it in a few weeks time, not letting the idea of his habits concern him too much. It made life easier to be continuous. Deep down he knew it was probably a coping mechanism; doing the same things every day to avoid any new experiences or be faced with challenges he wasn't prepared for. Sure, he would tell himself that he wasn't dependant on these small chains of events, but he knew he secretly was. 

He was nudged out of his daydream when the kettle clicked, signalling it had come to a boil. He took the handle and poured the water in, missing slightly and getting a few splashes on the worktop. Unsurprisingly, he'd gathered quite the few burn scars on his hands from his daily clumsy coffee antics. He added a dash of almond milk and stirred for a few moments before putting the coffee and sugar back in their place and taking the milk back to the fridge. 

He padded back over to the window, this time actually taking in what he saw instead of daydreaming and staring off into the distance. He was just about to take his first sip of coffee when he noticed a small commotion coming from the opposite side of the flat. He walked back into his bedroom, coffee still in hand, and peered out his bedroom window. His living room window showed a view of the back of the apartment building where as his bedroom's window showed the front.

On the other side of the street, parked in a very obvious parking restriction area, was a small, red car. It looked old and cheap and had scratches along the right hand exterior. He presumed it was someone moving in to the houses opposite when he saw the mass of boxes and carrier bags littering the back seats. 

As he couldn't see anyone, he guessed that they were already inside the house, probably unpacking boxes. He momentarily thought about walking over and telling them that they were in a 'no parking' area. Then again, if they passed their driving test, which he assumed they had, they should have known better. Phil Lester was a nice person but he knew that not everything in life was his job to fix. Not to mention he was currently wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and an oversized jumper and it was far too early in the morning to even think about changing into jeans. 

He walked away from the window of his bedroom and headed back into the kitchen. It was nearing 9am which was his usual wake up time and he would finally be able to go about his normal routine. He took a few small sips of coffee before placing it down on the kitchen work surface. He opted for coffee and toast on this particular morning. 

He headed towards the bread bin, grabbed two slices of seeded bread and placed them in the toaster. He had always preferred seeded bread to white or brown. When he was younger his grandma would say that it'd give him curly hair, which actually put him off it for a while. He smiled slightly, the corners of his lips curling at the memory of his nativity. 

Just as he was beginning to enter a familiar daydream about his childhood, the toaster popped. He jumped far too much for such a normal noise and his heart rate sped. He put his palm to his chest and took a few deep breaths before making a mental note at his own stupidity. Shaking his head slightly, he headed over to the toaster to grab his breakfast. Despite the toast not actually doing anything wrong, he still gave it a small glare for making him jump. Phil had a way at conveying emotions towards inanimate objects. 

He was never sure the correct way to get toast out of the toaster. Using your fingers? Possible burns and dropping of the hot toast would occur. Flicking up the lever and hoping it popped out far enough to fall onto the plate? Far too much effort for 9am. Giving a small puzzled look he opted for turning off the toaster at the wall and using a knife to get it out. Phil was clumsy, but he definitely knew better than to stick a knife into a toaster that still had electricity flowing through it. 

He slathered sunflower spread onto his toast, getting some on the sleeves of his jumper, and took a bite out of his toast. He hummed in appreciation at the warm, buttery goodness. He was a simple man to please so it seemed. He went back to his coffee and drank the last few sips, inwardly groaning as the bitterness of the dark coffee at the bottom of the mug hit his lips. 

He put the mug and plate into the sink, making a mental reminder to wash them up later. Not that he technically needed to, as he didn't have guests over, but he liked to keep on top of the washing up. He headed back into his bedroom and decided it was wise to get changed into something more appropriate. Boxers and a thigh length jumper was good for sleeping and lounging around but when he had to actually get things done or leave the house, he knew it was in his best interest to change into other clothes. 

He picked out a white and red t-shirt from his wardrobe and a pair of slightly ripped, cuffed black jeans from his chest of draws. He bundled them up in his arms, not worrying too much if they creased in the process, and headed into the bathroom. He placed the clothes down onto the closed lid of the toilet and switched on the shower, jumping back slightly as the water gushed out. His jumper needed washing as he had slept in it but he would rather it wasn't washed by the shower while it was still on his body.

He took off his jumper and shivered at the bitter air touching his once covered torso, thighs and arms. Small goose bumps began to litter his body and he dipped his hand into the stream of water to check the temperature. He toes curled slightly on the icy, tiled flooring of this bathroom. Once the water had warmed, he folded his hoodie and boxers and placed them on the floor of the bathroom. He rested his glasses in the sink and hurried into the shower.

He'd always loved showers. There was something about the way he felt completely free and in tune with his body and emotions. Not faced with life's worries, even for just a moment. Showers were his happy place. He stepped into the water, the heat and pressure startling him slightly. He let the warmth run over his back and shoulders, feeling the hair at the nape of his neck curl slightly with moisture. Phil tilted his head back into the stream and lightly massaged his hair, pulling at the roots slightly. He reached down to where the bottles of shampoo, conditioner and shower gel sat and took a small blob of shampoo into his hand. He rubbed and smoothed at his scalp until bubbles rolled down his shoulders and popped on his arms. 

He leaned his head back and washed away the soap as well as all of his worries, watching them dip in the water by his toes before swirling down the drain. Phil Lester had many worries, thousands of them bubbling in his brain. But much like the bubbles in his hair, they could be diluted and washed away. 

-

When he had finished washing it was around 9:30am. He stepped out of the shower, being careful not to slip on the tiles. He wrapped a towel around his waist, one around his shoulders and a smaller one around his head. When he lived at home he would get scrutinised for his 'excessive towel usage' by his family but now that he lived alone he was able to use as many as he wished, whenever he pleased. 

Shivering slightly at the sudden change in temperature, he dried himself off swiftly. He tugged on a pair of clean, black boxers, his ripped, black cuffed jeans and his white and red t-shirt. He put his glasses back on, not worrying with contact lenses today. When he was in his teenage years he would wear contact lenses almost every single day. The people at his school would tease him for his glasses, leaving a small hole of insecurity in his chest. Now that he was in his twenties though, that insecurity had almost fully healed. He'd finally started to embrace his glasses. They were slightly uncomfortable and made the tops of his ears and the side of his head ache, but he was able to appreciate how they framed his face. 

The contrast of the strong black against his pale skin made his eyes pop and the thick frames of his glasses complimented his hair nicely. He had striking facial features. High cheekbones, arched eyebrows, sharp lips and icy blue eyes. His looks didn't match his personality, or so he thought anyway. Phil saw himself as a dull person. Slightly too quiet, the kind that makes silence uncomfortable. Slightly too tall, the kind that makes hugs awkward. Slightly too shaky, the kind that makes people nervous and slightly too wrapped up in his own thoughts. 

He was never one to have long lasting friendships. He had acquaintances, people he saw a few times a week. Occasionally someone would ask to borrow a pen from him or ask to point them in the right direction for their class, but that was about it. He remembers the last meaningful conversation he had very vividly. It was around five months ago, in the coffee shop that he went into every single day. The barista working there for the easter shift had sparked a conversation with him. He was short, had mousey brown hair and freckles. Phil thought he was cute. They spoke for a few minutes about how he was only there for a few weeks. He'd been offered a part time job over the holidays to help cover for other staff members while they went on holiday.

Phil saw him three times after that. They smiled at each other but nothing else was exchanged. Phil would love to say that this memory stuck because it was significant in some way. A hopeless crush or magnetic pull from the universe, but that simply wasn't true. Just about any conversations that lasted for more than 30 seconds stuck with him, this one just so happened to be the last.

Phil wished he could say he had more experience with relationships. He was so fed up of his parents constantly asking if he had met anyone. Sure, he'd enjoy the company of a relationship but they seemed to be far more stressful than what it was worth. He was nearing 23 and still hadn't ever been in a committed relationship. He'd had a girlfriend for 3 months in year 10 but he really didn't think that it counted for much as they'd only kissed once and broke up shortly after. 

Phil walked out of the bathroom, carried his jumper and boxers into the kitchen and put them into the washing machine. He decided to do some housework for the rest of the morning. He spent the next hour hoovering, dusting shelves and polishing furniture. He enjoyed living in a tidy environment. It helped him to be more productive if he knew where everything was, not to mention the fact that cleaning gave him something to do. It was nearly 11am when he started hearing similar commotion to what awoke him earlier that morning, only this time it seemed to be coming from inside his apartment complex. He looked out of his bedroom window and as he had expected, the red car was still there. A few less boxes littered the back seats and the car looked almost empty at this point. 

He got on with cleaning again, putting bleach into the toilet and scrubbing the tiles of his bathroom. The smell was strong and made his nose burn and his brain feel dizzy. He scrubbed at the tiles and made sure the grouting was clean from dirt and shower gel. He organised his toiletries next to his sink and cleaned over the countertop. He was around half way done cleaning the bathroom when he heard the slam of a car door outside. For the third time that day, he walked into his bedroom, and looked out at that red car. Only this time, he saw the person it belonged to. A young boy, probably no older that eighteen, stood with a large box in his hands. It was so big that he could barely see over the top of it. His hair was in his eyes and whatever objects that were inside the box seemed to be heavy by his apparent struggle at manoeuvring it. It was battered and there was parcel tape hanging off one side. Phil wasn't even good at wrapping Christmas presents but he was sure that he could do a better job at securing this box with his eyes closed.

Phil continued to watch the boy as he shuffled across the pavement, attempting to lock his car with the box still cradled in his arms. After around two minutes of failing he gave up, huffed in annoyance and tried to flick his hair out of his face. He used his knee to push the box back up under his chin as it began to slip down his chest. Phil couldn't help but laugh a little. Maybe that made him a bad person...


End file.
